His father got out of the car, tossed his cigarette, and walked away. Klay had walked away, too. He had not done enough for his brother. He had not visited his mother. Or his father. “Memories,” Klay said now, looking at the priest. “That’s the funeral business. What cemeteries are about. And gravestones. But Americans no longer live near their families, Father. They move all over. They don’t visit family graveyards. So, I thought, why don’t we make gravestones people can take with them? Carvings they can keep on a shelf to remind them of their loved ones, of their faith. Gravestones for their bookshelves . . .”

The priest smiled. “Bookstones!”

“Yes! Like that.” Klay crossed to a bookshelf. “May I?”

On the shelf lay a sleeping Christ child, naked and anatomically correct, with the thumb of one hand touching its lower lip. The child lay incongruously next to a plastic gumball machine filled with candy. Klay hefted the ivory, feeling the weight in his hands. It was the size of a human infant but much heavier, carved from a single tusk. The elephant had been enormous, as big as Voi. Klay ran a hand along the infant’s pale arm. It had the same cold feel as a dead man’s skin.

“Extraordinary craftsmanship, Father. Ivory is elephants, right? This must have been a big one.”

“I think so,” the priest said. Martelino signaled the altar boy to help him to his feet. The priest circled his desk and joined Klay. He wore purple Crocs, Klay noticed.

“See,” Klay continued, “we could put the name and date of birth and death on its back here, just like on a gravestone. How much would something like this go for?”

“Depends. This one is Delarosa. I designed it myself.” Martelino touched a fleshy index finger to his upper lip in the same way as the finger of the infant touched its lips. “Delarosa brought it to—”

“Here you go, Father.”

Klay handed the sculpture to the priest, but Martelino wasn’t prepared for the icon’s sudden weight. He pitched forward, and would have dropped the sculpture if not for the altar boy, who darted to the priest’s aid. The boy steadied Martelino, but in his rush he knocked the gumball machine off its shelf. The plastic toy hit the floor and shattered. Blue candies skittered across the tile floor.

“Idiot, Sixto!” the priest shouted. “You pick up every goodie!”

Klay bent down to help the boy. The candies weren’t candies. They were quaaludes. The fat fuck was drugging the altar boys.

The young boy looked terrified. “Sixto,” Klay said to him quietly, smiling. “I’m six two, too.”